‘You’ve got your essay on your back, then?’ said the stable yard owner as I headed out with Darcy on our morning hack.
I have taken to wearing a hi-visibility vest even though I swore I would never join the Day-Glo brigade: large women on fat cobs plodding very slowly down the road in so much protective gear they look like they are going to fight the Taliban, not walk round the woods slower than a snail.
I swore I would never make myself look like them. I have ridden blithely along the country lanes of Surrey to reach the common for years and I have never had a problem with motorists, unless you count the loud-mouthed chav who wound her window down and yelled at me for not paying road tax.
Mainly, though, car drivers are courteous, or at least pass me with more than an inch to spare.
But then the whole cycling thing happened.
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